


Love Promises Nothing

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. John refuses to deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Promises Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to koni for beta-reading, general advice, and inspiring the buttock-line.
> 
> Warnings for: Grief, depression, reference to suicide, suicidal ideations, PTSD, eating disorder-like things, sadism, masochism/self-harm, violent sex, graphic violence

_Love leaves you desperate and feeling a fool_  
 _Love makes you ruthless and love makes you cruel_  
 _And love makes you crazy with nothing but lies_  
 _Love promises nothing and then your love dies_

 

**I**

Back when John first got back from Afghanistan, he had felt immensely out of place in London. Like he was an intruder, a fake, pretending to be something he wasn't. Or like the buildings and houses were just cardboard, a stage hastily pulled up but no more real than those fata morganas that used to pop up in the desert.

He mostly got rid of that feeling when he met – when he found purpose again, but... But. Well. It's returned now, obviously.

Although that feeling is preferable to the – the other one, ‘cause that’s returned too. His leg will go into spasm and his vision will turns blurry and the world will start to spin -

\- like it does now. Heart hammering wildly, breathing speeding up, hands shaking. _Panic attack_ , the rational cool part of his mind provides.

He curses. At least when he's inside, in the privacy of his own room, he can just ride it out. And even though the street is mostly empty – no one would go out in this weather – that only somehow makes it worse, the loneliness of it emphasising the hole in his chest, that dreadful aching gaping feeling of _loss -_

People. He needs people around him, living breathing people, to chase away the ghosts.

He pushes open the door of the first pub he finds and stumbles inside, into a warm yellow-lighted noisy world. It's perfect: busy, crowded, full of laughter, loud voices, the smell of spilled beer and smoke and sweat. It couldn't be more different from the cold sombre world outside.

He makes his way to the bar and leans on the beer-stained surface, breathing carefully. The pressure is already starting to go away, leg relaxing again.

“Come here often?” a voice says next to him.

John looks aside and thinks _soldier_. Not so much thinking it as recognising him, really. Not because of subtle cues like limps and suntans, just _kinship_. Like knows like.

“No. Just needed a place out of the rain.” He gestures to the barman and orders a pint. He can feel the fellow-soldier looking at him. Curious. Worried, maybe.

 _Join the sodding club_ , John thinks tiredly.

The barman plunks the glass down. John reaches for his wallet but before he can the stranger has put down a note on the bar. “On me.”

John raises an eyebrow, wondering vaguely if the man's trying to come on to him. The man catches him looking and smiles. “Call it army solidarity. Brothers-in-arms.”

Recognition goes both ways. “Thanks.” And then, because army habits die hard, he adds, “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The other man gives him a lazy salute. “Captain Sebastian Moran, Black Watch.”

John whistles. “Seriously? I'm impressed.”

“And SAS before that. Although I'm _retired_ these days, obviously.”

“Really?” The man barely seems in his forties, and no obvious injuries as far John can see. “Why did you – ” And he stops himself, remembers how much he hated that question.

Moran chuckles. “Bastard of a question, that one. But I... Well. It's complicated. What about you?”

No awkwardness, no politeness. Just genuine curiosity. And so John has little problem saying, “Shot. Shoulder.”

Moran pulls a sympathetic face. “Fuck. So that's why you look like shit.”

“No, actually, I...” He trails off. He doesn't like talking about this, but somehow, under Moran's calm grey eyes, it doesn't hurt as much as it usually does. “I look like shit because I lost someone very close to me.”

“What did he die of?” Straight to the point, but at least he doesn't try to sympathise, the way most people do.

“Suicide.”

Silence. John prepares himself for the condolences, the empathising looks, the awkwardness. All those things he's grown to expect and hate over the last few months.

It doesn't come.

“My partner killed himself less than a year ago,” Moran says flatly, and John draws in a hissing breath.

“Fuck. I'm – ” And he hesitates, realises he's about to do the same thing he despises. He falls silent and Moran glances at him.

“Yeah. So how long ago did you leave the Army?”

It should feel abrupt, forced, a sudden change of subject, but he's grateful for it. “About three years, something like that. And you?”

“Almost eight. To be honest, I was a bit relieved when I got out, but...”

“It doesn't let you go, does it?”

Moran shakes his head. “No, it doesn't. Once a soldier, and all that.”

“I'll drink to that.” He raises his pint and Moran clunks his glass against John's, and from there on it's easy and familiar and comfortable, the crushing emptiness of earlier completely left behind.

God, how he needed this.

***

Three pints later he feels... not exactly cheerful, but at ease. He forgot about this, soldiers' talk, the familiarity of it, the lack of formality. No need to censor, to hold something back, to _pretend_.

“I should be off,” he says, after he drowns the last of his lager. He stands up and for a second the room sways and he stumbles. Not drunk, it's the – the other thing again.

Moran's hand closes around his biceps, oddly anchoring.

“I'm fine,” John says irritably.

Moran frowns at him. “Sure you're alright?”

“I'm a doctor, I know this stuff,” John says, shaking Moran's hand off.

Moran raises his eyebrows. “Thought you said you were in the Fusiliers? What happened to the RAMC?”

He shrugs. “It's complicated,” he says, and Moran laughs.

“Isn't it always? Come on, let's get out of here.”

Moran leads him out, an arm around John's shoulders. The cold wet air outside comes as a shock, and then he suddenly finds himself with his back pressed against the rough brick and Moran against him, lips on John's mouth.

It actually takes a few seconds before he realises what's happening, that it's a kiss, because it's so damn _alien_. Moran is taller than him, heavier, hard beneath John's fumbling hands. He smells of leather and cigarettes and beer and he has callused hands and stubble that scrapes over John's jaw, and he kisses unlike any woman John has ever kissed.

Moran pulls off, puffs of breath visible in the cold. “Want to go back to mine?”

John opens his mouth to give the usual explanation, _not gay_ , but then he thinks, _why the hell not_? He hasn't got any in ages, anyway.

***

Sherlock Holmes has been dead for nine months, three weeks, and four days. John knows this the way he knows he's forty-one years old, that his middle name is Hamish and that he's left-handed. It's become part of who he is.

Nine months, three weeks, four days. No, five days, because it's past midnight now.

He runs his hand over his eyes. He's got stubble burn on his thighs and cheeks, a developing bruise on his neck, and an odd lack of shame. He should be ashamed. Shouldn't he? A one-night stand with a stranger he picked up in a bar. A _male_ stranger.

He stares at the mould on the ceiling, tries to work up the appropriate feelings. Nothing comes. And, well, at least he knows the bloke's name.

Moran is sitting on the other end of the bed, smoking. It doesn't feel like post-coital relaxing, though. It reminds him more of those long nights where he had to keep watch, friendly silence with just a bit of tension beneath it.

He wouldn't have shagged Moran if the man hadn't been a soldier, he's sure about that.

He sits up and runs his hands over his face, feeling Moran's eyes on him. He's used to people staring surreptitiously at him by now, as if they're waiting until he's going to break, but Moran... 

Companionable, that's the word. Something shared.

_\- my partner killed himself less than a year ago -_

Shared grief? Either way, it was the best shag he's had in months. He swings his legs from the bed and stretches. The ache in his leg has lessened a bit.

“Call a cab?” Moran asks.

John nods. Moran stubs his cigarette out on the bedframe and fishes his phone from his discarded jeans. John finds his trousers and underwear, gets dressed, listens to Moran make the call.

He still isn't sure what he's supposed to feel.

Moran puts the phone down. “He'll be here in a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Silence, again. Moran lights another cigarette, offers him the packet. He starts to say _no_ , then changes his mind, again thinking _why the fuck not_.

He closes his eyes at the first taste of nicotine – he quit ages ago, but you never really _quit_ , do you? – and out of nowhere the image pops up of a pale arm, covered in nicotine patches. He shakes his head, but –

A foot nudges his shin. “Stay here, doctor,” Moran says, with a wry smile. “Not the time to go reminiscing.”

John gives him a grimace back and settles back against the headboard. They smoke in silence. Awkwardness, maybe that should be here as well, but – Well, it's the comradeship-thing again, isn't it? A complete absence of judgement.

And he doesn't want to lose this, not yet.

“Can you – ” he starts, then breaks off. He shakes his head, tries again. “Can I have your number?”

Moran gives a short bark of laughter. “Yeah, sure. Phone?”

John stubs his cigarette out and hands his phone over. “This isn't – I mean, I don't want to... ”

Moran nods absently. “I know what it is. There.” He hands the phone back. John puts it in his pocket and stands up, testing his leg.

“I thought you said it was the shoulder?” Moran asks.

“Yeah, it is, but…” He hesitates. He doesn’t _talk_ about these kind of things, not even to people he cares about, let alone random strangers. Opening up makes absolutely no sense, and yet – “Psychosomatic.”

“Ah,” Moran says. Not mocking. Not overly-empathising, not awkward, not uneasy or confused, just – accepting. “Is it constant?”

“No, comes and goes. It… It got better, for a bit, but now it’s…”

Moran nods. “I’m almost jealous, you know. Having something…” He waves his hand, looking for words. “Something on the outside, instead of having to – Something that _shows_.”

John stares at him. It should be gibberish but...

Down below a carhorn sounds. They both jump, then share an amused not-quite-smile. Once a soldier always a soldier, and if you don’t duck on the battlefield you’re dead.  

“Yeah. Well…” He hesitates. “I’ll – ”

Moran snorts. “Just _leave_ , Watson. I don’t think either of us is the sentimental sort.”

He nods and goes down to the cab.

***

He checks his phone in the car. There's no new entry under the M, nor under the S, and it leaves a sharp stab of disappointment.

 _Probably for the best_ , he thinks, but he flicks through his contacts all the same, to see if he hasn't signed under another name. And he pauses at the I.

 _I need a quick dirty fuck_ the name says, and a cell number underneath it. He blinks, and presses _call_. The phone rings once, twice, and then a rough voice says _yeah_?

“You sarcastic bastard,” John says.

“At least I'm honest. See you around, _Captain_.” He ends the call.

And it's only when John gets out at Baker Street that he realises how much more _right c_ aptain sounded, compared to doctor.

 

**II**

The second time he sees Moran it's exactly ten months ago that – that _it happened_ , and the grief hits him like a punch right in the middle of the day and he’ll do anything to be distracted.

The third time it's because his taxi takes a detour past Saint-Bart's and the memories refuse to leave for three whole days, cropping up at the worst of moments, forcing themselves into his consciousness like a needle into a vein.

The fourth time it's a reference to the Reichenbach case in a newspaper, casual, small, and that of itself is horrible enough.

By the fifth time he's run out of excuses.

***

It’s raining again.

The weather has been horrible for weeks now, something for which John is grateful. Not that he gives a fuck about sun or clouds, but rain means people are less inclined to go out, to _bother_ him.

Although not this time. There’s someone waiting at his door, a woman, huddled beneath an umbrella.

She turns. Harry. He should’ve seen this coming. She’s changed, grown older, thinner. Face more lined.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. He clenches his teeth and limps to the door. She jumps in surprise when she spots him.

“John! Are you – ”

“What the hell are you doing here, Harry?” he asks tiredly.

“You weren't answering my emails,” she says, hovering over him while he unlocks the door. “And my texts, and my calls. And that letter I shoved beneath your door.”

John puts his keys back in his pocket. “Yeah. And it didn't occur to you that there was a reason for that?”

“John...” She sighs. “Look, I understand. What it's like, losing someone you lo-”

“You know nothing,” he snaps, and slams the door closed in her face. He doesn't want to talk about this, why is it so hard for them to accept that? As if their well-meaning sympathies could be of any fucking use to him right now.

He gets his phone out. Moran is on speed dial these days, John has grown that desperate.

“Can I – ” he says when Moran picks up.

“Yeah, come over.”

And it’s as simple as that.

***

He limps up the three flights of stairs to Moran’s flat. It’s a shithole, with a lift that’s permanently out of order and walls that don’t seem capable of holding the place up, not with that much mould and crumbling plaster. Thin, too, you can hear everything: an arguing couple, a kid shrieking in the distance. But at least it means they’re used to ignoring noise around here; no one ever reacts to the violent sounds coming from Moran’s bedroom.

The door swings open after his first knock and Moran drags him in by the collar. John fists his t-shirt and pulls him along to the bed, throws him down, crawls on top of him. Forgets about pain and grief and emptiness for the moment and focuses on sex, on skin and bone and wet heat and the simple burn of scratches and bruises.

He had tried _gentle_ once, at first, out of some vague sense of decency. Moran had turned around and snarled _what do you think I am, a fucking virgin_ , and that had been that.

Moran’s hand closes around John’s cock. He arches his back, clamps his fingers around Moran’s wrist, hisses at the rough hard friction. Bites his tongue when he comes.

It’s nothing like any other sex he’s had. They don’t talk, for one thing. There's certainly no foreplay: one of them just ends up pushed against the wall or pinned down on the bed, no communication except in grunts and moans. They _fuck_ , that’s the word for it, and it's brutal and more often than not painful, and exactly what he needs.

He rolls off Moran, sticky with sweat, and stares at the ceiling. Tries to remember Sarah and Jeanette and all the others, what it felt like to have a woman in his arms, to genuinely care for the person he's shagging.

He comes up empty. He can't imagine _making_ _love_ to someone anymore.

He gets out of bed and pads over to the window. Moran sits up and lights a cigarette, the smell of tobacco mingling with the sex and sweat and wet-carpet-and-mould stink of the room.

It’s an odd inbetween something, this. The thrill of sex and violence fading, the pain blooming through. Even though the world still lurks outside, in the privacy of this room there’s a strange kind of peace.

And he can’t bring himself to leave. Leaving means facing what's out there, dealing with all the concern and the advice, acknowledging the grief again, the _loss_. While in here he doesn’t have to pretend, he can just _let go_ for a few fucking minutes. It's denial and it's weak, but sometimes he thinks that these moments are all that stands between him and suicide.

He runs his hand over his face and looks down, at the street below. There’s a group of kids going past, laughing and shoving each other, dancing in and out of the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. A young couple follows them, arms around each other’s waists.  Behind them a woman walking her dog. Normal, easy life.

Something inside him twists painfully.

He looks over his shoulder, to where Moran is still smoking, his mouth wet and obscenely red. “Do you ever get that feeling,” John says, voice hoarse, “where you… y’know?”

Moran gives him a look. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, mate.”

“Where you just…” He grits his teeth, looks outside. It’s one thing to think it, but a whole other to actually say it out loud. “Because everyone’s so – and you just want to – to bring in a fucking _tank_ or – ”

“Ah. _That_ ,” Moran says, and it could have sounded mocking but it doesn’t.

John turns back. “It was the same when I just got back, you know. I just looked around, at all the people, and, and…”

“Hated everyone,” Moran finishes.

Soldier to soldier. Sometimes it feels like John’s talking to a mirror.

“Yeah. ‘Cause they didn’t know, couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine…”

“And it’s the same now, isn’t it?” Moran says, expression twisted. “They’re all just – just so fucking _cheerful_ all the time, as if everything’s alright, as if nothing’s changed, as if…” He drops his head forwards, hands running over his face, as if he’s trying to scrub away the pain.

It’s odd, this honesty. It’s like they need the sex to strip away those barriers, the censoring.

Although he still doesn’t know a thing about Moran’s dead partner, apart that he’s male, that he killed himself. And that he was Moran’s entire world, apparently.

“What was he like?” he asks, straight to the point.

Moran looks up and blinks. “What?”

“Your – your partner, what was he like?”

Moran stares at him, his eyes wide, surprised. And then he starts to laugh.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” John says, raising his hands. It’s the first time he’s got anything other than a completely honest answer, and it stings a bit.

“Sorry,” Moran answers, still laughing, “but one day you’re going to get the joke.”

“Yeah.” John gives him a dubious look. He’s never felt afraid of Moran, but that sick laughter sounded just a bit too – too unstable to be comfortable.

“Sorry.” Moran wipes his eyes. “It’s – Nevermind. You should go home.”

“I don’t want to,” John says abruptly. “I don’t want to – to go back, to do – I just want to – ”

“Stop,” Moran says softly.

“Yeah.”

“’Cept it doesn’t work like that, does it? We can’t – ” He looks away. His hands clench.

John watches him in silence. He doesn’t offer comfort, doesn’t even try to say anything. He just waits, until Moran stirs again, looking deeply tired.

“Go home, John Watson,” he says. “Close your eyes for a bit. Dream of your detective.”

John grabs his coat and limps out without another word.

***

It’s only when he’s outside that the penny drops: Moran might have never talked about his partner but John hasn’t said a word about _his_ , either. So how did he know about the detective thing? But then again, the papers had loved talking about _the consulting detective_. Of course Moran would have made the connection.

 _His detective_.

He skins his palm on the rough brick of the wall as he doubles over, heaves, empties his stomach on the street. He can hear kids shout and laugh somewhere nearby, mocking him – god knows what he looks like, a haggard greying vomiting wreck of a man.

He wipes his mouth and limps home. Once there he goes straight to bedroom, doesn’t even bother getting undressed. He just pulls his shoes off and curls up in bed.

 _Crying might be good_ , he thinks. _Right about now. Go ahead, cry_.

But it doesn’t work like that, does it? His eyes stay stubbornly dry, like they have for the past months, and he’s left staring at the ceiling until finallyhe falls asleep.

***

He dreams of the rooftop, but then again, when doesn’t he?

 

**III**

“You're not eating well, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, her eyes on the hollows of his cheeks, the jutting bones of his wrist.

No, he isn't eating well. Not sleeping well, either. In fact, he'd go as far as to say that there's _nothing_ he's doing well.

And it's not even like he's trying to fool himself about it. He's a doctor, thank you very much. He knows his DSM, the neat little list of symptoms. Knows that this level of grief after more than six months isn't normal or healthy, knows what sleeping trouble and concentration problems and lack of energy all point to.

He knows that medication might help, a little, but the thing is that he doesn't _want_ to be happy again. What the fuck has he left to be happy about, anyway?

“John?” Mrs Hudson prompts again, her voice small, worried.

“Sorry, yeah. I’m – I’m just not that hungry.” He waits, and when she doesn’t leave he asks, more rudely than she deserves, “Was there anything else?

“Mycroft’s upstairs, dear,” she says. She’s avoiding his eyes again, and he tries to feel guilty about that. It’s not like he’s doing any of it on purpose, just that he doesn’t have the energy left to care.

“Is he?” he says flatly, and starts the long arduous climb up the stairs. Moran has left a large bruise on John’s thigh, and each time he moves it twinges. And his muscles ache, of course, because the kind of sex they have almost always leaves him stiff and sore.

It’s a good burn, though. Reminds him he’s still alive, despite what he might think sometimes.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. Mycroft is sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. Neither taking John’s chair nor the other one, how fucking _considerate_ of him.

John drops down heavily in his chair and glares at Mycroft, saying nothing. Mycroft steeples his fingers and watches him.

“Anything you wanted?” John asks eventually, once it’s clear Mycroft won’t take the first step.

“I was worried about you.”

John laughs. “ _Really_? Yeah, well, as you can see, I’m fine, so you can bugger off right – ”

“You're depressed, John,” Myroft says calmly. He seems so unaffected, and John wants to shake him and shout _your brother is dead, don't you feel anything?_

“And?” he asks, aggressively keeping eye contact. Mycroft looks away. Something cold and ugly snarls inside John’s chest. “What is this, a suicide watch? Want to avoid making the same mistake twice?”

Mycroft twitches, minutely. “John – ”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he says. “So you can stop fucking _worrying_ , ease your conscience. Like you did with – ”

“Sherlock wouldn't have wanted this,” Mycroft interrupts him. Cool and calm and perfectly in control.

John stares at him. He opens his mouth, tries to speak, but all his words end up being choked by his sheer bloody _fury_. “Get out.”

“John – ”

“Out, or I'll swear to _god_ I'll strangle you. _Out_.”

Mycroft gives a little nod and walks out, leaving John breathing hard, shaking, his leg going into spasm. His fingers fumble for his phone and he presses the speed dial.

“Yeah?” Moran says on the other side of the line.

“Can you – ” He breaks off, struggles for words.

“What happ- Nevermind. I'm out right now, but come over tonight, I'll be there.”

He doesn't say _thank you_ , but it's like Moran said: they're both getting something out of this.

***

It’s more a fight than sex, that night. John’s jaw burns with pain and his knuckles are bruised and the taste of blood is on his tongue, and all of his confused anger and pain and grief seem to have condensed to this one, fiery need to _hurt_.

It’s catharsis, pure and simple, and somewhere along the road the grappling turns into something else, a previously choking hand suddenly closing around a cock, with almost comparable violence, and John welcomes it gratefully.  Mycroft doesn’t exist here, nor does Harry, nor does _anyone_ beyond him and Moran and the ghosts of what they’ve been forced to leave behind.

Afterwards Moran sprawls out on the bed on his stomach, back bare. John sits up next to him, thin stained sheets pooled around his waist, his breathing and heartbeat slowly calming down again. The last remains of his fury are fading away, the afterglow of the pain rushing in to take its place.

This is the point where shame should start to kick in, normally. Guilt. Disgust.

It doesn’t.

John turns to look at Moran, spread out next to him. In the harsh neon light of the room his scars are particularly noticeable. Long, clean lines, not shrapnel, too neat for that. He reaches out to touch them, then thinks the better of it; it feels like an intimacy he doesn’t have a right to.

Strange, considering all the things they’ve done to each other, that there are still limits and boundaries left between them.

“Where did they come from?” John asks instead. “The scars?

The muscles of Moran’s back go tight, shoulders drawing up. Like he’s curling in on himself.

“Wrong question?” John asks, wryly.

“It’s, er, complicated,” Moran says, muffled. “A lot more than yours, for one thing.” He turns and looks at John’s shoulder. “No need to ask, is there?”

John touches his shoulder, feels the bullet-shaped scar. He used to a bit self-conscious about it around women, but here… It’s more like boys comparing scabs.

“Neatly done, though,” Moran says, approving. “I’m jealous.”

“A bullet’s easier than shrapnel. I know from experience,” he says, rubbing the scar with his thumb.

Moran smirks and then stretches lazily, yawning.

John studies him with something like clinical interest. It isn’t lust, not really: he can stare at Moran’s naked back, the muscles and the line of his shoulder blades, and think that yeah, objectively he’s not a bad-looking man, but…

Moran turns around and sits down heavily on the bed, the springs of the bed screeching loudly. He turns his head, catches John looking, and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“I'm not gay, you know,” John says, more trying the words out than out of some need to defend himself.

Moran laughs. “What the fuck's got _that_ to do with anything?”

“I never even thought about it,” John continues. “Stood in changing rooms full of naked blokes, never felt a thing.”

“And now?” Moran leans over the edge of the bed and reaches for his cigarettes. He's just – some guy, a naked guy, and that of itself does nothing for him, not the way a naked _woman_ would.

“I'm... I don't know.”

Moran rolls his eyes. “Look, it means as much as you want it to mean. Fucking one bloke doesn't necessarily mean you have to get out the rainbow flags and start flouncing about in cut-off shorts.”

“So what is this?” John waves between them. “Us?”

Moran breathes out a stream of smoke, eyes closed, smiling wryly. “Grief counseling.”

John turns away. It comes too close, this, bringing back memories of the last time he felt this lost, and how he solved it then…

_\- you’re not haunted by the war, you miss it –_

A laugh. He looks up to see Moran is grinning. “Something funny?” John asks.

“Just… remembering that trite question. You know.” He turns to John and says, mocking, “ _How do you feel_?”

 _“Fine,”_ John growls, the same thing he tells everyone who asks.

Moran gives him a mirthless smile.

“Liar.”

 

**IV**

He wakes up – but that’s the wrong word, that’s too gentle, doesn’t come nowhere near close to how he fucking _drops_ into consciousness like someone dunking him in ice-water. He’s bathing in sweat, shaking all over, panting like he’s run a marathon.

He shudders. There’s the lingering undefined fear from the nightmare, and the disorientation, the confusion. And then, right on cue, the realisation.

 _He’s dead_.

Funny, that, how each morning he’s forced to go through that again. You’d have thought once was enough.

He sighs and gets out of bed, goes to the bathroom. The mirror shows every bruise, every scrape, each and every one of them a cruel little reminder of what he needs, these days, simply to function.

 _Well, fuck that_ , John thinks tiredly. It works, doesn’t it? Sort of. And it might be – be _unhealthy_ or _regressive_ or whatever fucking word a shrink would stick on this, but it makes him feel just slightly less shit, and right now he’ll take anything that stops him feeling like - _like this_ all the time.

Besides, as far as self-destructive acts go, violent sex is one of the safer options, right?

He sighs and steps into the shower.

***

Life goes on.

That’s the worst thing of it all: life just goes on and everyone assumes he’ll eventually fall in line again. Not just Harry and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson; the entire _world_ seems like it’s tapping its fingers impatiently, waiting for him to get back on track. Be a productive member of society.

He pinches the bridge of his nose – healed, now, but still a bit tender – and smiles, grimly. He wasn’t even that fucking _productive_ to start with, not once he gave his job up to work fulltime as a –

A what? Blogger? Sidekick? _Skull_?

His stomach cramps up. He puts his hand on the wall, leans down, and breathes until the wave of nausea has passed.

He straightens up again and limps to the door of 221b. The smell of food, of pasta and tomatoes and herbs is filling the air, which doesn’t help his lingering sick feeling. He closes the door immediately behind him, locking out the smells. Luckily Mrs Hudson hasn’t been baking; all that’s in the air here is fairy liquid and furniture polish.

He leans back against the door and closes his eyes. How can anyone expect him to be a productive _anything_ like this? With panic attacks and vomiting and sleepless nights, the occasional auditory hallucination thrown in for good measure… God, he’s lucky they haven’t locked him up in an institution somewhere yet.

A creak. He opens his eyes. Mrs Hudson is hovering in the doorway of her kitchen. “You’re looking a bit peaky, dear,” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies, not sure what else he can say.

“Do you want something? Nice cup of tea? I have some biscuits in – ”

“No.” And then, after a painfully long pause, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“Yep.” He starts for the stairs.

“Oh, John?”

He turns. Mrs Hudson gives him a timorous smile. “I found a few bits and bobs in the back of a closet while I was cleaning up, dear. I thought you might want to have a look at them, first?”

He nods and Mrs Hudson disappears again, after another uncertain smile.

He limps up the stairs, reluctantly. He doesn't really want to look at them. The memories stuck to random objects hurt far more acutely than the ones that are just in his head. Which probably makes staying at 221b a bad idea, but he can't leave. Can't stomach the idea of someone else living here, erasing all the traces.

Traces are all he has left, now.

He sighs and gets inside. There’s a small cardboard box waiting for him on the table. He carefully goes through the contents. A few loose odds and ends, and a thick folder. He flips it open.

The first page is a picture of Moriarty.

John almost drops the folder again. Of course he kept a file, why wouldn't he? But why did he keep it secret? To protect John's feelings?

He leafs through the pages. Clipped news articles and print-outs of bank accounts and copies of prisoner's files, nothing he can make any sense of. Maybe he should hand it over to Lestrade, maybe he could –

The world freezes.

There's a picture. Moriarty, laughing, oddly relaxed. And across from him, hand on Moriarty's shoulder, a man. Blurry and half-hidden but still recognisable.

_\- I'm retired these days, obviously -_

He turns the photograph around. On the back, in that familiar barely-legible scrawl, it says _Associate? Chief of staff? Lover?_

_\- my partner killed himself less than a year ago -_

His hands are shaking.

\- _one day you’re going to get the joke -_

He drops the file, gets his coat and runs down the stairs as quickly as his aching leg will allow him.

***

Moran opens the door. Before he can react John has his hands in the man's shirt and presses him up against the wall.

“Alright,” Moran says placidly. “What's going – ”

“ _Moriarty_ ,” John yells, and Moran goes very very still.

“It isn't what you – ”

“Was this part of his plan? Did he – did he _tell you to_?”

Moran breaks his hold and shoves him away. “Like hell he did. And if I wanted you dead you'd be dead, trust me.”

“What the _fuck_ are you getting out of this?”

He laughs. “The same as you, don't I?”

John punches him, right in the ribs which he bruised only two days ago, and Moran doubles over. “ _Why are you doing this_?” John shouts, voice breaking, clawing at Moran’s shirt.

“Because you're the only person in the entire _fucking_ world who could understand,” Moran snarls back.

John stumbles back, breathing hard.

“I had to – ” Moran takes a deep breath, breaks off coughing again. “Had to try. Had to _see_. ‘Cause you do, don't you? Understand?”

John stares. “Yeah. I – yeah. I understand.”

“Cause it's better than nothing.” He wipes the back of his sleeve over his mouth. It comes away streaked with red. “Cause we're the same, you and I.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Moran looks away, spits blood onto the floor. “So are you going to be squeamish about this?”

John gives him a long, hard look. And then he pulls him in by neck and kisses the blood from his lips.

 

**V**

He doesn’t go back.

It’s hard, at first, erasing Moran’s number from his phone, repressing the urge to go running to his flat every time he feels like he’s falling apart, avoiding Brixton  just because he might run into him. It’s painful, but he manages. He doesn’t go back.

But he doesn’t go to the police either, and he’s not entirely sure why.

He keeps looking at that picture, lingering over Moriarty’s cheerful expression, Moran’s by-now-familiar shape, and tries to call up the horror he knows he should feel. But all he feels is _want_. Not sexual, not really, just an overwhelming desire to get back to what he had, that strange feeling of kinship, the relief of violence. And yeah, the sex too, but…

He can’t go back. It’s wrong, sick, disturbed. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

He runs his hands over his face, then stands up and gets his coat.

***

Moran isn’t in the pub, like he hoped. But there are other people, and booze, and getting drunk is nowhere near enough to stop him feeling like he’s breaking apart but at least it’s _something_.

But, as it turns out, not all violence is the same. A pub fight with strangers doesn’t offer nowhere near the relief Moran ever gave him. Not that it stops him: he can hear himself shouting slurred profanities, can feel his fist smashing into someone’s nose. But it all just feels like a weak copy of the real thing.

And then there are sirens, and someone pulls at his arms and he passes out in the back of the police van in a pool of his own vomit.

***

He wakes up in a cell.

There’s a bottle of water standing next to him. He drinks gratefully. His throat feels like it’s full of sawdust and his knuckles are scabbed and bruised. He feels like shit.

The door creaks open. It’s Lestrade, giving John a tired look, and it's so full of _disappointment_ that John breaks down laughing.

“Christ,” Lestrade mutters, obviously disgusted.

John hiccups, stops the ugly laughter with a wrenching effort of will and looks up.

“You need to get it together again,” Lestrade says, gripping John’s shoulder.

John wipes the tears away and looks at him. “Why?”

Lestrade just sighs and pulls him up. “I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. Get a shower, take some aspirin, brush your teeth.”

“And _then what_?”

“Jesus, John, you…” Lestrade covers his eyes, briefly. “Grieving won’t bring him back. This isn’t what he would’ve wanted. Just… get it back together again, yeah?”

John shrugs Lestrade’s hand off and mutters, “Wish I knew how.”

***

The police car drops him off at the nearest hospital. The nurse that patches him up is cheerful in a strangely subdued way – not artificially _chirpy_ like some of the other nurses – and he doesn’t find it grating the way he does usually.

It’s the high point of his week, really.

***

“I was worried, dear,” Mrs Hudson says timidly once he’s back home.

“Sorry,” he says awkwardly, lingering at the kitchen door. “I got – ”

“Arrested, yes, Greg called and explained.” She frowns. “Are you… I thought you were looking a bit perkier, lately, but since last week… Has something happened, John?”

He laughs. “Yeah, something – something happened.”

“Well, can’t you get it back, whatever it was? It seemed to help.”

“I…” _Fuck it_ , he thinks tiredly. “Yeah. I can try.”

***

He goes straight to Moran’s place that night, hammering at the door. “I don’t care,” he yells. “I don’t give a fuck, just let me in, you _bastard_. Let me…” He chokes. His hand hurts, and the door is flimsy enough that more knocking would probably break it down.

“He ain’t in, love,” someone says behind him.

He turns. It’s the woman who lives downstairs, bad dye-job and kid on her arm and all.

“Any idea when he’ll be in?”

She shrugs. “He comes and goes, that one. Never says hello or anythin’ either.” She squints suspiciously at him. “You’re not his boyfriend, are ya?”

“God no. I just…” He looks at the door. He’s made a dent in the wood – he can feel his knuckles aching. “Nevermind,” he says, and limps back down.

Maybe it’s a sign. A second chance, to get his head straight again.

God knows this couldn’t possibly end well.

***

Just the thought of going back to Baker Street after that makes him want to throw up, so he heads to his local instead.

He nurses a lonely pint and idly contemplates violence. It would get him banned, probably, which would be annoying because he likes this place, no one bothers him here.

But he – he needs to do _something_ or he’ll lose his mind.

He just has spotted a likely candidate – tough-looking, tattooed, loudly drunk - when a familiar voice says, “You, mate, look like _shit_.”

The relief that hits him is so strong he almost feels like gasping. But he can’t, can’t do this, can’t give in.

 _This isn’t what he would’ve wanted_.

So John doesn’t look up from his glass. “Fuck off, Moran. I’m not in the mood,” he lies.

Moran snorts. “Sure about that?” He grins. He looks fucking _dreadful_ : a black eye, a scrape across his jaw, unshaven and eyes bloodshot and hands bruised and dirty. A mirror of John’s face, really, only marginally worse. “Because you look like you could do with a good fuck, to me.”

John squeezes his eyes shut, tries to lock it out. Even apart from everything else, there’s something unnerving about finding Moran here, in a familiar space, out of relative safety of the flat. Retaliation for John coming to his place? He would, the vindictive bastard. “Moran, seriously. I’m not in the sodding mood, alright? Just fuck off.”

“No.” He leans against the bar next to John, bringing along a waft of booze and blood and vomit. “You might not be in the mood, but I am.”

“Then go find someone else. Shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?”

“Are you _flirting_ with me, Captain? Was that a _compliment_?”

John grits his teeth. “ _Stop_ this, stop being an arsehole. Can’t you – ”

“Such pretty words and then blowing me off, you cocktease.” He leans closer, puts his hand on John’s arm. He gets a face-full of beery breath. “Tell me, did you do the same with Sher- ”

He slams his hand down on Moran’s wrist and looks up, furious.

Moran’s grinning. “There we are,” he says, smugly. And then the smug grin fades and is replaced by a predatory, hungry, almost _pleading_ look.

John stares at him. It feels brittle, this. And Moran must know, that John is only seconds from breaking down again. Hell, he must be at the same point himself.

“I…” John starts. “I shouldn’t – ” He breathes in again, breaks eye contact. “He wouldn’t have wanted this,” he says, clinging to the words.

“Shouldn't have topped himself, then, should he?”

John looks back up. It’s brutally honest and it should shock him. Instead it feels like breath of fresh air, after all the tender hesitant well-meaning care.

He doesn't _dance around_ , Moran.

“We're on our own,” Moran continues. “They left us. So why the _fuck_ should either of us care about what they would have wanted?”

John opens his mouth, closes it again. He can feel himself slipping and he doesn’t even begin to care.

“So fuck _should_ ,” Moran says, “fuck _them_ , and tell me what you really want.”

John swallows. And then he grabs Moran’s arm and pulls him outside.

***

They do it right there, in the rain and fog, Moran pushing him against the wall outside much like he had the first time.

This time John is a lot less coy, though. He bites down on Moran’s lip until he tastes blood, flips them around and pins Moran’s wrists against the brick wall, pulls his head back and bites down on his neck as well.

Moran laughs, breathlessly, then moans as John forces his hand down his jeans. John _wants_ , is dizzy with it. He doesn’t even have the decency left to be embarrassed about this, jerking each other off in a dirty alley like horny teenagers, and when he comes he sags forward against Moran’s hard chest and pants and just, for a moment, feels _alive_ again.

He leans back and stares at Moran. They breathe in unison.

“Welcome back,” Moran says at last, voice hoarse, and John croaks out a laugh.

 

**VI**

_He wouldn’t want this_.

It’s one of those trite little things people keep saying, like it’s supposed to help, like it _makes sense_.

Because, well, wouldn’t he? This was a man who made him shoot people, who caused him to be kidnapped, shot at, nearly killed, over and over again. He never cared about _careful_ then, so why the _fuck_ should John start caring now?   

Hell, maybe he would have even applauded this. Gaining his enemy’s trust, getting into his head as well as his pants…

“Do you think of me as the enemy?” he asks, still staring at the ceiling.

“No,” Moran says from his left. “Why, should I? Planning something?”

“No. Wouldn’t know how to. Planning was never really my strong point, that was – ” He stops.

Moran hums and swings his legs from the bed, searching for his cigarettes. He bends over, and the curve of his back makes the scars stand out even more than usual.

John watches them with a muted sick curiosity. They were clearly inflicted deliberately, by someone who knew what they were doing. Before he’d thought it might have been some expensive prostitute, another Irene Adler – although it had been hard to imagine Moran paying for sex – but now…

Once again the picture dances in front of his mind’s eye. _Moriarty_.

Moran sits up again and starts lighting a cigarette. John tries to imagine them together. Smiling, like they did on the picture. Familiar, like John used to be with…

It doesn’t make sense. And yet it _does_ , in a deeply wrong, fucked-up way.

“Did you love him?” John asks.

The following silence feels uneasy, in a way their silences never have before. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, maybe that’s something they can’t talk about. But that’s the whole sodding _point_ of this, isn’t it? That he can just say what he wants?

But then Moran, finally, replies. “Yes.” He looks up at John. “Of course I did. How could I not?”

“He was a _psychopath_.”

“He – there was more. Than. Just – he…” He takes a deep breath, looks away. “Did you?”

“What?”

“Love him?”

“I – ” Even _hearing_ the question hurts, let alone considering the answer. But honesty deserves honesty in return. And he doesn't really need to think about the answer, does he? “Yes. But it didn't – I wasn't – It wasn't about sex.”

Moran shrugs. “Doesn't really matter, does it? He's there, part of you, in your bones, in your blood. Was.” His jaw goes tight.

And after all those gay jokes and stupid assumptions and friend-versus-colleague debates it's such a fucking _relief_ to finally hear someone get it. “Yeah. That’s – that sounds about right.”

Moran sits down heavily on the bed and meets John’s eyes. “I told you,” he says. “You and me, we’re… we’ve got the same thing.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here, right?”

“Yeah.” Moran looks up at him. Tired. Mirroring John again.

“Should I leave?” John asks. “Or – when can I… What do you want?”

Moran runs a hand over his face, breath hitching as he comes across a cut. “What I _want_ ,” he says, and the pain in his voice is so raw John feels like wincing, “is to stop feeling. But for the moment I’ll settle for – for this.” He reaches out and takes John’s wrist.

“Good,” John says, and leans against Moran’s side, shoulder to shoulder.

Comrades. God, no wonder Moran felt like kin the first time they met.

“I hate this,” Moran says suddenly. “I hate _feeling_ like this, it's – it's fucking constant. No breaks.”

“You wake up with it and you fall asleep with it,” John mutters.

“Yeah. And it doesn't – I thought it would get better but it's just getting _worse_.”

John runs his hand over his face. “How are you supposed to live with this?” he asks. “How can you – can you _go on_ when - '

“You don't.” Moran looks up and bares his teeth in something that doesn’t even remotely look like a smile. “Fuck knows neither of us is exactly coping _well_ , right?” His hand clenches, knuckles going white. A scab splits and a tiny bead of blood seeps out. “Just staying alive,” he adds, with a bitterness and desperate anger that John doesn't really get. Doesn't _want_ to get.

“Day by day,” he says.

“Day by fucking day,” Moran agrees, burying his head in his hands.

“You're right, it is fucking horrible.”

***

He should care. That much he knows. He should be disgusted or scared or any other amount of things, but –

But this is the only thing that makes his world anything but a drab grey mess and he can't, _won’t_ give it up.

***

“Back again?” the nurse asks. It’s the cheerful one, same as last time.

“Yeah.” He raises his hand and lets her take a look at his knuckles. “I’m stubborn like that.”

“Are you competing?” she asks, rifling through her bandages. “Or do you get beaten up for recreational reasons?” She smiles at him. “Don’t worry, I’m a nurse, nothing can shock me. Only two nights ago we had someone with a carrot stuck up his arse. I know all about unusual ideas of fun, me.”

“Er,” he says, a little startled.

He doesn’t know how to deal with this anymore, with normal, cheerful, teasing conversation. The few people he still talks to treat him which such tiptoeing care and concern that any conversation he manages to have feels artificial, fabricated.

But this one… She somehow manages to hit that exact mixture of care and casualness that makes him feel at ease, rather than making him want to punch whoever’s talking.

“Oh dear,” she says drily. “Brain function going? Just think how many brain cells are lost forever every time someone punches that handsome face of yours.”

He shakes his head, once against lost for words. The nurse doesn’t seem to mind, though. She simply gives him an amused look and a smile.

“There,” she says, taping the bandage down. “When are you going to come back again? It’s just that if you’re planning next week, I might switch shifts.”

“Yeah, I can understand why you wouldn’t – ”

“I meant so I could make sure I was here.” She leans forward. “That was me flirting,” she adds confidentially.

John stares at her. She has dimples, and bright amused eyes, and if he’d met her a year ago he would have been all over her.

“Or not,” she says, cheerfully. “See you next time. I’m waiting in suspense, you know. What will it be this time? The ribs? Or the hip? Or will I get _really_ lucky and get to treat a buttock injury?”

“Right.” He stands up, flexes his fingers. “I should… go.”

“See you around, then,” she says, eyes still glittering.

And somehow, out of nowhere, he drags up, “You think a carrot is bad? Try extracting a turnip.”

She laughs, startled, and while he can’t quite manage a smile of his own, he leaves the hospital feeling –

But it doesn’t last, whatever it was. He fades into familiar grey numbness soon enough.

He doesn’t really care about pretty women anymore.

***

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Moran snaps.

It’s raining outside and the thin windows do nothing to keep the noise out. There might be something peaceful about it in other circumstances, but right now it reminds him of nothing but machine gun rattle.

John spits in his hand and forces two fingers inside Moran, who tenses briefly but then obviously tries to relax. He has done this before, after all. John tries to kill any thoughts of _going where Moriarty has been before_ and pulls his fingers back. He's barely rolled on the condom before he grabs hold of Moran's hips and pushes in.

Moran makes a choked noise. His shoulders pull up and his knuckles go white with effort, with pain. Before – before _all this_ the idea of hurting a lover would have been horrifying, but all he feels now is a dull sort of satisfaction.

He pulls out and slams back in, sets the pace, quick and hard, giving Moran no chance to adjust. It's cruel, and a very small part of him, the part that's still got any decency left, is watching in speechless horror. But the part that's in charge of his body right now doesn't give a fuck about niceties. He couldn't stop now if he wanted to, and when he comes it's with a deep guttural grunt.

Moran gives a little shudder, then wipes his hand on his jeans - took matters in his own hands, then, because John sure as hell didn’t give him the kindness of a reach-around.

He pulls out - another half-pained grunt from Moran - and stares at the soiled condom. There's blood on it. His stomach turns.

“Scary, isn't it?” Moran says. His voice is weak and shaky, and despite himself John feels another of those strange stabs of _triumph_. “Seeing the beast inside of you.”

“I was a soldier.” John throws the condom in the bin, turns around to see Moran tug his jeans back up. “You think this is the first time I've met my – my _monster_?”

Moran turns as well and smiles. “ _Was_?”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did.” He zips his jeans up and comes to John. Grabs John's neck and plants a rough kiss on his lips. “Your turn next time, sweetheart,” he says, his voice still broken.

And John doesn't quite know if his shiver in response is disgust or fear or something entirely different altogether.

Still, with the anger and the lust dealt with, he feels a little more peaceful. The patter of the rain against the window has grown softer, less aggressive. He should leave, now he’s vented. He doesn’t, though.

 _Fuck should_.

“I’m going upstairs,” Moran announces, snatching a bottle from the kitchen. “Coming?”

“Where else would I go?” John says, and trails after Moran.

The roof of the building is a far better choice than Moran’s cramped stinking rooms. The air here is as clear as it ever is in London, and the sky is wide and clear above them, the last of the rain clouds drifting away in the distance.

They’ve ended up here a lot, lately. Those times when they don’t even have sex, where they just fight, the thrill of bruises and blood enough to fill the void for a while. Or those other times, when both of them have sunk too deep, when they just sit, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the distance.

“Mrs Hudson said I need to move on,” John says.

Moran’s mouth twitches up. “ _Move on_?” It isn't a smile, that thing on his face, far too ugly and twisted for that. “From _that_?”

And the noise that comes from John's throat isn't a laugh either, but it sounds a bit like that. He can't stop it, can't stop laughing, until he's wheezing.

Moran drily hands him the bottle. He takes a swig and lets the alcohol burn his insides.

“Move on,” he says, voice hoarse. “Keep going. Pick up my life. Be useful. Be – I don’t know.” He takes a step closer to the edge. Five stories. The streetlights below are broken, he can’t see the ground.

He steps onto the ridge right at the edge. “We’ll just have to do it like this,” he mutters, and sticks out his foot, curiously. Dangling over the abyss. If only…

Moran’s hand grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him back, roughly. He doesn’t say anything, Moran, doesn’t show surprise or shock or fear. Like this is perfectly normal behaviour.

John leans against Moran’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “You should have let me,” he says, but without much heat or conviction. He’s not even sure if he would have, could have gone through with it.

Moran steals the bottle back. “You want to kill yourself, fine, but I’m not going to deal with the shit. Do it in your own time.”

John snorts. “Paragon of sensitivity, you are.”

Moran looks up at him. In the dark his eyes don’t show up, there’s just two black holes. “I had someone once,” he says, slowly. “I’d only been a sergeant for three months, and there was this kid…” He turns away. “He just threw his gun away and walked straight into enemy fire.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of silence, John clears his throat. “I saw my first casualty only two weeks after I got there. Explosion. He was – blown apart. And I – I just stood there with my medikit, feeling useless, and I looked down at what was left of him and thought _dear god, we’ve got to ship this back to his mum_.”

Moran looks at him again, and while he never looks _gentle_ exactly, there’s something soft about his expression all the same.

He can’t remember the last time he talked about this. He just doesn’t, not even to – He wouldn’t have understood, not in the way a fellow soldier would. Once you get back from your first deployment you learn about that, how civilians might as well be a different species for all the basic empathy they just lack, how you might as well be speaking a different language when it comes to this. And Moran…

Well, like he said: they’re the same.

“But you didn’t quit,” Moran says at last.

“No. I had to – I didn’t want to stand back and do nothing while other people were being blown to bits.”

“You had to sew the bits back together.”

“Or try, at least. It was – purpose, you know?”

“Of course I know,” Moran says tiredly. He hands the bottle back to John and John takes another swig. As if the alcohol might burn away the taste of ashes in his mouth.

“Do you miss it?” John asks suddenly. “Would you go back?”

“No. Never could stomach being told what to do, except for – ” He skids to a halt. “Why, would you?”

“I don’t know.” He tries to imagine it, back to the rush and the fear and the camaraderie and the sound of bombs. A stray bullet finishing the job he’s too much of a coward to do himself. Sounds like _bliss_ , right now. “But I can’t. Unfit for duty.”

Moran snorts. “We’re unfit for _life_.”

 

**VII**

“So, doctor or nurse?”

He looks up at the nurse in confusion. “Sorry?”

She continues wrapping the bandage around his wrist, smiling. “Unless you extract vegetables from people’s colons for fun, you never know, it takes all sorts.”

“Er…” Right. He joked about that last time. Seems like a lifetime ago. “Doctor,” he says. “Well, I – I used to be.”

“Hm. Well, no bare-knuckle boxing for you any time soon, _Doctor_ Watson.”

He runs his fingers over his bandaged wrist, remembers how it felt when Moran slammed it against the bed, bent it back.

Pain still breaks through the fog, in a way few things do, these days. It’s dangerous, because each time he can feel the temptation to go further, to cross the line, to …

He shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says.

“My pleasure. See you next time,” she adds, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

He stands up uneasily and leaves. He wants _out_. Hospitals always look the same and he doesn’t want to think of St-Bart’s right now, doesn’t want to deal with the memories. Just fresh air, and that will –

“John?”

He turns. Molly is standing in front of him, clutching a clipboard, avoiding his eyes - but that's nothing unusual, not anymore.

“What are you doing here?” he says. It’s curt and accusing and Molly blushes all the way to her ears.

“Picking up a body for the morgue. Um.” She squirms, looking anywhere but him. “Are you okay?”

“Sprained wrist.” He waits, tries to drag good manners from god knows where he left them to rot. “How are you?”

“I'm, um. Fine.” She peeks at him and looks away immediately. Doesn't ask how he is in return, for which he's grateful. He's not sure he could give the requisite _just fine_ without starting to laugh at the utter absurdness of the idea, of _being fine_ , and poor Molly is unnerved enough as it is.

“Anyway.” He gives her a nod and swings his cane, walking, _limping_ on.

“John.”

He turns around. Molly _is_ looking at him now. The way she would look at Sherlock sometimes, a little bit scared but mostly determined.

“Yeah?”

She purses her lips, as if she's unsure. “Take care of yourself,” she says softly, and then she turns and is gone before he can reply.

***

 _Take care_ was probably meant as – as making sure he got enough sleep and ate something healthy and didn't get isolated, things like that. Not turning up at the doorstep of a known killer and baring his throat.

Maybe that’s what this is, some kind of repressed death wish; maybe he’s still hoping that one day Moran might go that bit further and actually…

Moran pulls eagerly at John's t-shirt, trying to get it out of the way as soon as possible. He manages to pull it over his head but then John's arm get tangled and it needs a bit of wriggling to get it out. He accidentally bends John's shoulder backwards a bit too far and John groans at the pain.

They both freeze.

Moran's face is dead serious, no hint of the mocking sneer he usually wears. His eyes are very dark and focused on John's. His hand goes back slowly to John's shoulder.

Slow enough that John could stop him, if he wanted. He doesn't.

Moran's fingers touch the scar tissue, soft at first. He doesn't look away from John, not even when the pressure of his fingers slowly increases until the slight discomfort turns into pain. John throws his head back but Moran's free hand takes his jaw and forces him to look back. His fingers dig in hard.

John is a doctor, but Moran was Special Forces; he might not know about nerves and joints the way John does but he does know how to do _damage_. His hand tightens even more, manipulating the joint, the sinews. The pain turns to agony and John screams at it.

Moran lets go after a few excruciating seconds, still serious.

John meets his eyes. “Do that again.” And he's flipped onto his stomach, his arm forced back in a way that sends fire down his nerves and tears to his eyes but at least it's _something_.

_Take care of yourself._

***

His shoulder continues to hurt, more than it usually does, for several days after. Usually he’d welcome this kind of pain, but…

He’s not doing well – understatement of the year that, of course. But he’s slipping, it’s getting worse and worse and he can’t stop it and the only times he doesn’t feel like he's coming apart at the seams are when he’s got Moran’s hands on him.

That night he comes home with a black eye and a split lip, desperately clinging to the afterglow because it’s going to disappear and he’ll be left in that black gaping nothingness again and he _doesn’t want to go through this again_.

Mrs Hudson gives him one shocked look and backs away.

***

The sun is shining.

John draws the curtains and sits in the gloom inside, fighting an increasing terrifying need to get out of his own skin. To just stop, to feel something, to – to not want to tear his own face off. He can’t put it in words and he can’t talk about it and there are ants crawling under his skin and he can’t _deal_.

Back when he interned at A&E he’d once seen a junkie clawing long bleeding marks into his own arms, and that’s what fucking addiction feels like and he feels like he can’t fucking breathe. This isn’t a fucking panic attack anymore, this is his insides crumbling and he can’t –

He drinks all the booze he has left in the flat – not enough, far too little - and smashes the bathroom mirror and spends a few minutes just _screaming_ until his voice breaks and he collapses, hugging his knees.

By the time he comes back to himself the sun has set and his blood has seeped into the carpet. He stares at it and desperately tries to feel something.

He takes his phone and blindly presses the speed dial.

“Yeah?”

“I think I – ” He breathes in, deeply. “I _need_ , I’m – I can’t do this anymore.”

“Get over here, then,” Moran says, calmly.

***

When he turns up in front of Moran’s door he gives John a deeply ironic look. “You look like you’ve been in explosion.”

“I smashed the mirror,” he mumbles.

Moran steps aside and lets him in. “You’re lucky the coppers didn’t pull you in, looking like that.” No _why did you that_ or _jesus, are you okay_. Just a shrug. “Get the first-aid kit, will you? I’ll run the water.”

John goes to the bathroom. There’s a very well-stocked first aid kit beneath the sink. It isn’t the first time they’ve needed it.

He goes back to the bedroom and puts the kit down on the sheets. Moran sets down a bowl of water on the night table and starts cleaning John’s face, all the tiny cuts the flying glass left him.

He’s not bad at this, Moran. Efficient, but still almost gentle.

“I’m tired of this,” John says, once Moran has moved on to his arm and the deep cut there. “There’s no – no _point_.” The feeling is rising again, of wanting to tear himself to bits, to just _stop_.

Moran doesn’t say anything.

When he’s done with the wound John grabs his neck and pulls him into a violent kiss, eyes squeezed shut. Moran's fingers drag over the cuts on John’s face and he hisses at the mixture of pain and lust.

 _Please_ , he thinks, not sure what he’s asking for, but then Moran’s weight pins him down against the mattress and he lets himself drown in it.

***

They end up on the roof again. Dark clouds are gathering above them.

“I owe him everything, you know?” John says. He feels strange, light-headed, like he’s floating above an abyss. “If it wasn't for him...”

“Same here,” Moran says. “But you can't be in debt to a corpse. We don't owe anyone anything, not anymore.” He laughs and turns, throws his arms wide. “There's just _this_. Isn't it fucking horrible?”

The pose. Arms outstretched, feet right at the edge... 

He pushes himself up and tackles Moran to the ground, punches him in the face.  Moran rolls with it and throws him off. “Hit a _nerve,_ did I?” Moran says, laughing.

“Fuck off.” He sits up and wipes the rain from his face. They should get back inside. Even without the memories kicking in full force, they’re still going to get soaked once the rain picks up. Rooftops aren’t a good choice.

But he doesn’t move, and neither does Moran.

“He cried, you know,” John says, staring at the rain on Moran’s face. “At the end. I could hear it in his – his voice. He was crying.”

“Hah.” Moran gets back to his feet and gives him a heavy-lidded look. “Ten to one he was faking it, mate. Sherlock Holmes didn’t fucking _cry_ , not for someone like you.”

“Yeah?” John glares at him. “You know that, do you?”

“Course I do. He didn’t give a shit about – ”

John rears up. “You _shut your mouth_ ," he yells. “He wasn’t – he did – ”

Moran sneers. “What, you think he loved you? Cared for you? Of course he fucking didn’t, he was fucking _incapable_ of it. Feeling. A fucking – fucking manipulative cruel heartless _cunt_.” Moran spits on the gravel of the roof. “Don’t be so fucking naïve, Watson. The man couldn’t give two shits about you.”

And John snaps.

He socks Moran in the jaw, and the man stumbles backwards, hand on his face, laughing. But then John lunges again and he stops laughing, seems to realise this isn't their usual rough and tumble.

He only barely manages to block the punch John aims at him, is too late to avoid the kick. He almost goes down, stumbling back upright just in time to get John's elbow in his stomach. He gasps, and John tries to hit him again but Moran catches his arm and pulls him off-balance. He grabs a handful of Moran's shirt and manages to drag him along to the ground. They end up grappling.

He straddles Moran, aiming punch after punch at him. It's almost easy. Moran is stronger and bigger and better-trained than him, he could overpower John without any trouble, and that means he's letting John win and that thought is infuriating.

He rears back, aims for Moran’s face but then Moran catches his arm, brings his knee up hard between John's legs. His grip loosens at the searing pain and Moran flips them around, feet scrabbling on the gravel. John tries to get back up but Moran pins his legs down and bends his arms back and then he's effectively trapped.

“Let me go,” John growls, struggling against the hold. There's no give, no advantage he can use, he's trapped. “ _Let me go_ ,” he yells, wrestling against the hold, pressed against Moran's shoulder.

“Let – ” but the next words dissolve in a broken sob. He falls forward, against Moran's chest. There's a high animal-like keening noise coming from his throat, eyes hot with tears, and he can't stop it. Ugly hacking sobs are dragged from somewhere in his chest, grief so deep that it seems embedded in his nervous system. And he wants it _out_ , and John chokes and howls and sobs and rocks into the arms around his shoulders, clutches at those arms like it's the only thing keeping him afloat, until the world finally blessedly turns dark.

 

**VIII**

He wakes up in hospital.

He’s been in these kind of places often enough to recognise it pretty much instantly:  the sterile smell, the bleeping of machinery and the distant squeak of the nurses’ shoes, the crisp linen of the sheets...

“Oh, hello,” a woman says, nearby.

He blinks and tries to focus. A nurse, smiling at him. The one he saw the last few times, the nice one. “Where – I mean, why am I here?”

“Ooh, skipping straight to the pertinent questions, well done.” She smiles again, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling. It’s a very nice smile. “Malnourishment, dehydration, blood loss, exhaustion… Lovely little cocktail. You’re lucky your friend brought you in.”

 _Breakdown_. He takes a deep breath and places his hands flat on the sheets. Steady. His throat is sore, his eyes feel puffy. He’d been crying, hadn’t he?

And he’s starting to cry again, his eyes burning. He pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to stop.

“I need to ask you something," the nurse says, gently. She takes a step closer, something soft in her eyes. “Did you  do that yourself?” she asks, looking at the deep cut in his arm.

“No,” he says. “Well, yeah, but – not intentionally.”

She nods, then reaches for his arm.

He pulls back. “I’m fine.”

“No, love,” she says softly, with a smile that’s a little sad, a little wise, a lot kind. “You’re not.”

 “I’m – ” And then he stops himself. “No,” he hears himself saying. “I’m not. You’re right. I’m – Someone died. _Sherlock_ \- ” and his voice breaks and again he can feel his eyes grow hot with tears again.

“Oh god.” The bed dips and she sits on the side, puts her hand – warm, firm – on his forearm, just above the cut. “I’m sorry,” she says, and it doesn’t grate the way it used to, when people said things like that.

It’s like something finally _broke_ inside of him, last night. A shell, torn to pieces. Like for the first time in a long time, he can just feel the grief instead of being drowned by it.

“Did you…” She bites her lip. “I mean, was he…”

“Yeah,” he says, choked. “He was my – my best friend. Best man I’ve ever known. He – I can’t even begin to…”

Her face is nothing but compassion, honest and real, and for some reason he can’t stop himself talking, words spilling out chaotically, without any sense or order, and Sherlock’s name, littered through it like a light guiding the path at night.

And she listens. And keeps listening.

“I’m sorry,” she says, once the flood of words has finally dried up. “I really am, a loss like that… You’re brave.”

“I’m not,” he says, half-laughing. “I’m – If I was brave I’d pick up my life, but…”

“Well, it’s never too late for that, is it?” She squeezes his wrist. “You’ve taken a first step already, if you ask me.”

“Thanks,” he says, and again she smiles and for all the cliché it does look like the sun coming out after a grey cloudy day. “Why are you here anyway?” he asks. “Not that I don’t – But shouldn’t you be rushing around in A&E, saving people, instead of listening to pathetic old sods like me?”

She shrugs, still smiling, eyes glittering. “My shift ended an hour ago. I can listen to all the pathetic old sods I want in my free time.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s…”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.” She frowns. “Sorry, is that – is that creepy of me? It’s just that…”

“No, it’s fine. It’s – ” He smiles. It makes his cheeks ache – probably just the cuts, although it also feels like using muscles he hasn’t used in centuries. “Fine,” he finishes, lamely.

She laughs. “Got a way with words, haven’t you? Right, well, I should probably be going.”

“Right, yeah, of course. Will I - ” He stops himself, biting down on the _see you again_.

She holds her head to the side. It’s birdlike, curious, charming, and her accompanying smile is thoughtful but still, above all, _kind_. “They’ll discharge you this afternoon, I reckon. And if I were you I’d wait a bit before stepping back into the ring, so I suppose I won’t be seeing you any time soon.”

“Unless you – ” He clears his throat. God, he’s out of practice. “Unless you want to meet up somewhere that isn’t a hospital?”

Her smile broadens, something mischievous about it. “I don’t know, I’ve grown used to seeing you all beaten up. I might not even recognise you without the bruises.”

“I’ll wear a flower in my buttonhole,” he says, deadpan.

“If you actually do that I promise you I’ll pay for your drink.” She stands up and turns, heading for the door. “Alright,” she says over her shoulder. “Next Wednesday. My shift ends at four, come pick me up here.”

“Yeah, great,” he says, and then, “ _Wait_.”

She stops and turns, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…” He smiles, sheepishly. “You haven’t told me your name.”

She smiles again, that amazing kind bright genuine smile, and says, “Mary.”

“Mary,” he repeats, and for the first time in fifteen months something eases in his chest.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Garbage - I Hate Love
> 
>  **Black Watch/SAS:** the SAS are the British army’s elite forces, with a reputation of being extremely badass - and a gruelling recruitment procedure. The Black Watch is a regular infantry regiment, but also infamous for it badassery
> 
>  **Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers/RAMC:** The RAMC - Royal Army Medical Corps - is the official corps of all army medical personnel. John’s canon insistence that he's part of the Fusilliers and not the RAMC is a bit weird, so consider this a handwave.
> 
>  **his DSM, the neat little list of symptoms:** The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, aka the Big Book of Things Wrong with People's brains. It's an internationally accepted list of possible mental disorders and the diagnostic criteria for each disorder, and pretty much the Bible of psychiatry.


End file.
